The Wonderland Chronicles
Fall.
After a fall such as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling downstairs!
You’re in the bathroom, crying, sobbing, pulling at your hair. The razorblade is sitting beside the sink. The blood is dripping on the floor. You’d been doing so well. Then that . . . damned memory. Memories are like diseases. They creep up on you while you’re sleeping and you wake up needing to vomit. Or cut your arm to pieces.
Brendon is at Ryan’s. He had a crisis and you said you were fine, which was true for the moment you said it. Memories are unexpected. Like the shrinking and growing when you bite the mushroom. You know it’s coming, you just don’t expect it.
He finds you asleep on the bathroom floor in the morning. You didn’t hear his gasp, but you feel him shake you awake. You’re peering through heavy-lidded eyes as he washes your arm and throws the razorblade in the trashcan. Then he scoops you up and carries you back to bed, tucking you in and humming the opening chorus of the movie.
“Oh, baby, baby.” he whispers when he’s done, stroking your hair and kissing your forehead. “Why does this always happen?”
“Mushroom.” you mumble, turning and burying your face against his leg.
“No mushrooms, baby. Just you.”
You wake up later to an empty room, noises coming from the kitchen. Cake, tea. He’s trying to cheer you up. You remember when he brought home the tea sets. Mixed and matched them. Pink and a yellow tablecloth. He played the ‘Mad Tea Party’ on the stereo and tried to play the teaspoons in time against the glasses. The green one still has a chip in it. That’s your favorite.
He kisses you on the forehead when you come out. The stuffed animals are in the chairs around the table. Mad Hatter, March Hare, Cheshire Cat, Dormouse, White Rabbit, and the Caterpillar with the hookah he ordered for about three hundred dollars.
“Are you ready for your tea, Miss Alice?” he asks, pulling out your chair and setting the green cup in front of you, the chipped siding facing the other direction. He pours it, with three lumps of sugar. Just the way you like it.
“Thank you.” And it’s a thank you for everything. For loving you, indulging, paying to get these stuffed animals custom-made just for you.
And he understands. But he just smiles and sits down across from you, sipping at his own tea and trying not to make a face.
Brendon’s never been one for tea. Or mushrooms.
You’re in the bathroom, crying, sobbing, pulling at your hair. The razorblade is sitting beside the sink. The blood is dripping on the floor. You’d been doing so well. Then that . . . damned memory. Memories are like diseases. They creep up on you while you’re sleeping and you wake up needing to vomit. Or cut your arm to pieces.
Brendon is at Ryan’s. He had a crisis and you said you were fine, which was true for the moment you said it. Memories are unexpected. Like the shrinking and growing when you bite the mushroom. You know it’s coming, you just don’t expect it.
He finds you asleep on the bathroom floor in the morning. You didn’t hear his gasp, but you feel him shake you awake. You’re peering through heavy-lidded eyes as he washes your arm and throws the razorblade in the trashcan. Then he scoops you up and carries you back to bed, tucking you in and humming the opening chorus of the movie.
“Oh, baby, baby.” he whispers when he’s done, stroking your hair and kissing your forehead. “Why does this always happen?”
“Mushroom.” you mumble, turning and burying your face against his leg.
“No mushrooms, baby. Just you.”
You wake up later to an empty room, noises coming from the kitchen. Cake, tea. He’s trying to cheer you up. You remember when he brought home the tea sets. Mixed and matched them. Pink and a yellow tablecloth. He played the ‘Mad Tea Party’ on the stereo and tried to play the teaspoons in time against the glasses. The green one still has a chip in it. That’s your favorite.
He kisses you on the forehead when you come out. The stuffed animals are in the chairs around the table. Mad Hatter, March Hare, Cheshire Cat, Dormouse, White Rabbit, and the Caterpillar with the hookah he ordered for about three hundred dollars.
“Are you ready for your tea, Miss Alice?” he asks, pulling out your chair and setting the green cup in front of you, the chipped siding facing the other direction. He pours it, with three lumps of sugar. Just the way you like it.
“Thank you.” And it’s a thank you for everything. For loving you, indulging, paying to get these stuffed animals custom-made just for you.
And he understands. But he just smiles and sits down across from you, sipping at his own tea and trying not to make a face.
Brendon’s never been one for tea. Or mushrooms.